‘Why have they stopped pelting us?’ asked Roger Masson with disappointment, bloody butt ready for more bashing of bone.
‘I don’t know,’ said Ned Lester, wiping a loathsome concoction of animal matter from the side of his face, ‘unless a press gang sweep is underway.’
The reason only became apparent when we wheeled around a fishmonger’s shop at the corner of the street, and saw who was holding court outside the tavern that confronted us.
‘Eyes to the left, boys,’ said Thomas Pomeroy in a hushed quaking voice, ‘’tis those unruly Dragoons again.’
And sure enough it was, a pack of them, enjoying themselves as only they and their money knew how with a barrel of liquor. Striking attitudes of astonishing insouciance and devilment, they lounged against walls or sprawled over benches like leatherbooted lions, their power and flash intimidating all onlookers. Nevertheless I dared to seek out Mr Axelrod in their midst. The reaction was instantaneous.
‘What are you staring at, Fucker?’
‘Nothing. Sorry. I-I-I….’
‘Then fuck off. Now. Before I cut your fucking cod off!’
I didn’t tarry, and continued rather unsteadily on my march. I’d only managed a few rubbery strides when there was an awesome shout of ‘HEY!’ behind me. I almost felt the word hit my back, so ‘twas obviously addressed to me, but I was in two minds whether to stop and possibly be eviscerated or run off and possibly be eviscerated. I stopped.
‘Off to the wars, are we, Mr Oysterman? Nothing like it, is there?’
I turned and picked out Burnley Axelrod from the many hungry faces glowering at me. Oblivious to the consequences, I stepped out of the marching ranks and trotted back to the tavern, determined to speak to the man again.
‘Hey, where are you going?’ came a high-pitched cry behind me. ‘Come back, ye dog!’
I carried on regardless, but the wind was somewhat taken out of my sails when Mr Axelrod stepped forward and revealed that he was with, and had his hands all over, Vickie Tremblett, she of the modest disposition, sweet nature, and exciting features. My idealized Beatrice glanced at me for a moment, smiled triumphantly, then returned her adoring gaze to her undoubted lover, if that was the right term. The look on her face, which trumpeted to the world her drunken enthralment to the dragoon, sent shock waves shuddering through me. I was somehow aware, even as his hand absentmindedly massaged her bosom, that my youth was over; extinguished not in a stew of whoring, but by the painful realization that women were only human after all, and not inanimate sculptures on which to project fantasies of happiness.
‘Aye, Sir,’ I blurted out, not knowing now what to say, ‘Off to the wars. Nothing like it, as you say.’
‘Good lad. I knew you’d enjoy the military life once someone forced you into it. You’ve no hard feelings against me, I hope, Mr Oysterman?’
‘None at all,’ I said, feigning unconcern as he accepted with indifference Vickie’s divine little tongue in his ear. Agonized, I watched as she slid her hand into his breeches, and giggled. It was clear she had been thoroughly debauched.
‘Is Vickie coming with you?’ I enquired politely.
‘How do you know Vickie? Oh, yes, of course. The Forgotten Martyr. Well, let’s ask the little lady. Vickie, are you coming with me?’
Vickie, eyes halfclosed, body wrapped sinuously around him, sighed into his ear.
‘I want to be wherever you are, Burnley.’
‘I’d take you if I could, girl. You know that.’
He gave me a wink, a man’s man, a cheeky scoundrel, a cheerful breaker of hearts. Who could hate him?
‘Yes, Burnley, I know. But wouldn’t it be wonderful?’
To the amusement of his fellow dragoons, Mr Axelrod began to make gestures of some sort behind Vickie’s back. He was still at it when a horse came galloping up behind me.
‘Oysterman!’ cried Pubescent Pete, whirling about and waving his sword. ‘Get back into line, damn you! Talking to these gentlemen is a crime punishable by severe flogging.’
‘And your name is?’ enquired Mr Axelrod calmly, as the other dragoons tensed and reached for their pistols, ever eager for another quick breach of the peace.
‘Peter Wriggle,’ pronounced Pete, as he struggled to control his horse, take off his hat and wave his sword all at the same time. ‘Lieutenant in the Glorious 85th Foot. I have had the pleasure of attending one of your dinner parties, Sir.’
‘Ah yes, Pubescent Pete,’ said Mr Axelrod, looking up at the youngster with cruel mocking eyes, ‘Well, Mr Oysterman here is an old friend of mine. I’m sure you won’t mind if we have a few moments together before we disembark.’
‘Why, er, no,’ said Pete, the astonishment in his voice palpable. ‘No, not at all. N-not I.’
With audible disappointment, the other dragoons tucked their pistols away and went back to their drinking.
‘Good. So what ship are you on, Oysterman?’
I looked up at Pete, deflecting the question.
‘Er, the, er….the Twinkle.’
‘The Twinkle, eh?’ said Burnley, smirking, ‘That’s a shame, I’m on the Hellhound. Could’ve taught you the rudiments of brag.’
‘Maybe in America.’
‘I’ll drink to that. Join me. You too, Peter.’
Unable to move because of Vickie’s clinging body, Burnley indicated with his eyes the location of the waiting glasses. Taking two, I scooped them in the barrel’s liquor, and passed one up to the still-shaken Pete. When Pete had finally sheathed his sword and put his hat back on, he accepted it and we raised our glasses high.
‘To Life!’ Burnley roared, a toast echoed by the other dragoons, whose glasses appeared to be filled permanently.
Oppressed with gloom, I waggled my glass feebly in the air, mumbled ‘To Life!’, and downed the drink in one. To my horror, ‘twas not the expected wine, but brandy. Too busy choking, spluttering and wiping the tears from my eyes, I could not immediately join in the glass-throwing ceremony that was going on all around me, but when I had recovered sufficiently I tossed my glass aside too, and watched in curious fascination as it described a little arc and exploded into a thousand splinters on the stony ground. A shocked silence fell on the dragoons, and all eyes regarded me with dreadful anticipation.
‘W-what?’ I asked nervously, my eyes flitting from one scarred face to another.
‘That, Mr Oysterman,’ said Mr Axelrod, in a voice of menace. ‘was a piece of Queen Anne crystal, given to me as a family heirloom. It was priceless, and it is irreplaceable.’
I looked down at the shattered remains with horror.
‘B-b-but…I thought that…as everyone else was…that it was acceptable to…’
‘Irreplaceable,’ repeated Burnley.
‘Then I must…I must…’
I fell down on my knees to scrabble amongst the splinters.
‘Too late,’ cried Burnley. ‘It cannot be repaired.’
Distraught, absolutely riven with anguish, I gibbered and stammered on, a complete wreck.
‘I-I-I will pay you back…somehow…if it takes me a thousand years…I will…I w-will p-pay…’
‘But Mr Oysterman, priceless means priceless. No amount of money can ever replace that glass, even if you were able to save until Judgement Day itself.’
I trembled and looked up at him like a cringing spaniel, sensing Death was near.
‘Then I…I am…’
There was a dreadful pause, and I fancied I stretched my neck out involuntarily, for ease of cutting.
‘The victim of a splendid joke! It was just ordinary glass, you fool!’
A roar of demonic dragoonish laughter went up, interspersed with cries of ‘Priceless!’, and I had to taste Humiliation Pie yet again. Even Vickie Tremblett was crying with laughter, dancing with joy on some crumpled pieces of paper on the stones. About to rise to my feet, I suddenly sensed what these papers might be, so I stayed low to look at them
more closely. Sure enough, I found that they were the unsigned love poems I had devoted to her at the Martyr, and that they had been another source of mirth to all and sundry I was in no doubt. Truly, I thought, as I feigned a wry smile and levered myself upright, I was providing everyone with much-needed entertainment today.
‘Now, gentlemen,’ said Pete, stepping in with admirable bravery, ‘I am afraid I must take Mr Oysterman away from you. Our ship awaits.’
‘Very well,’ said Burnley, ‘But we’ll meet again soon, Mr Oysterman, in a far more troubled land. More conflict. More tension. More blood. Then you’ll feel your senses tingle, by God you will. You’ll thank God you were born.’
I doubted that as much as the words I then heard Vickie Tremblett breathe into his ear.
‘Fuck me, Burnley. For God’s sake, fuck me now.’
She couldn’t have said that, surely? But when I looked back a few moments later, they’d gone.
‘So, Lieutenant,’ I said to Pete, in an attempt to divert my melancholic thoughts as we made our way down to the dockyard. ‘I see you can hold your liquor well; I didn’t hear you cough or splutter once.’
‘That’s because I threw it over my shoulder,’ said Pete, in a distracted manner. ‘My father said I should never indulge in spirituous liquor until I am twenty-one.’
‘Very wise.’
Pete coughed, looked around suspiciously, then hissed down at me.
‘You may call me Pete, provided you do not do it in front of officers or men.’
‘So just when we’re alone then?’
‘Aye.’
‘And you may call me Harry. Again, just when we’re alone.’
‘Good. So, er, Harry, that friend of yours. It was the Burnley Axelrod, was it not? The Rising…’
‘…Star of the British Army. Aye, it was.’
‘And how did you make his acquaintance, if I may be so bold?’
I rattled off a brief history.
‘Many men would pay to be impressed by that man,’ said the youngster, clearly impressed himself.
‘I’ve paid for it already,’ I said. ‘No doubt about that.’
‘Come, come, Harry, a connection like that will be the making of you sooner or later…but zounds!…here is Corporal Tibbs up ahead. Look humble, Harry, if you please…and remember, if there is anything I can do for you, don’t be afraid to ask.’
Surprised at this offer, I nevertheless slipped back immediately into my role as servant to Pete’s master, and managed into the bargain to feign enough humbleness to fool a cartload of Corporal Tibbs’s. Meanwhile Pete stuck his nose in the air and put on a show of aristocratic hauteur quite remarkable for its verisimilitude. After ordering Corporal Tibbs in a most surly manner to escort me to the dockyard, he trotted off for his dinner and a lie down, presumably at one of the more salubrious taverns in town.
‘Arrogant little prig,’ Corporal Tibbs muttered under his breath. ‘How I’d like to get him up a dark alley.’
Nodding agreement, I followed the corporal through the few remaining streets to the docks themselves. At first, I was too bayoneted with the anguish of sexual jealousy and the desolation of broken dreams to take much notice of my surroundings, but on turning the final corner the full drama of life came bursting in upon me, and shook me out of my melancholia.
‘Well!’ I exclaimed, tipping up my hat and pausing to take in the view, ‘what a prodigious stage set this is!’
We were on a slight elevation before the road descended further, so were able to look down on a scene straight out of Hogarth. A mass of people heaved and jostled before me, all setting about their business with single-minded determination. A tremendous hullabaloo rose up from them, as if the urgency of life was forcing them to communicate at the tops of their voices. In and out of all the chaos, as aimless as Cain, weaved cows, horses, goats, sheep, pigs, geese, hens, dogs and even monkeys. It was like watching a hundred plays all muddled up together, and my eye – unlike the same organ of that astounding insect, the fly – could only take in a limited number of random vignettes. Amongst them were men toting bags and cases of belongings; one-legged sailors scraping sea-shanties on fiddles, begging caps in front of them; barebreasted women kissing and singing with their lovers; husbands and wives beating the stuffing out of each other with brooms and pans; children being thrown playfully from second-floor windows to some catcher on the ground; and I even saw, as in some allegory of the decline of culture, an old man and his book being tipped out of a sedan chair by pair of young laughing louts. The man sprawled, crumpled and groaned on the filthy fishy cobblestones, while the book – Hume’s Enquiry Concerning the Human Understanding, I noticed – shot mortally into the threshing machine of feet, never to return. On the way to help, I was forcibly restrained by Corporal Tibbs.
‘Leave it,’ shouted Corporal Tibbs, a man on whom the teachings of Our Saviour were clearly wasted, ‘it’s his own fault for being here. Now come on.’
Ducking to avoid various forms of flying missiles, barged and buffeted by hurtling brawlers, we ploughed on through the mayhem until I caught a glimpse, in the distance, of the great ships of the line that would take us to America. My stomach knotting with excitement, I guided Corporal Tibbs towards them until the streets widened to the dockyard proper, which introduced itself to us with a blast of sea air that brought upon it a piquant mix of aromas including resin, tar, turpentine, wood, rum, tobacco, vinegar, smoke, sweat, ordure and stagnant water. Around the dockyard’s wide spaces stood huge grimy warehouses, in front of which huddled taverns, chop-houses, pastry shops, loan shops, tobacco shops and grog shops, all with the windows of their upper floors occupied by shouting, waving spectators. A cordon of guards was trying to keep the rabble out of this area, with varying degrees of success, but of course we were nodded through without question. In the thinned crowd it was now possible to see where my regiment was, indeed where every regiment was, for the ground nearest the waterfront was covered with the seated ranks of soldiers awaiting embarkation. As we set a course for them, the general noise of the throng was gradually replaced by the sounds of hammering and sawing from the ships, which vied with the calls of sutlers selling provisions to the troops and the loud urgent screeching of the swooping gulls. The greater opportunity for conversation was of no importance to Corporal Tibbs and I, however, for while he was busy seeking out the Glorious 85th Foot, my attention was captured by the names on the sides of the mighty ships now looming larger by the second – the Havoc, the Armageddon, the Hellhound, the Implacable. I was still glorying in these names, imagining what a fright the Americans would have when they saw them, when I came across the Twinkle. Spirits dashed by the very name, I took one look at it, shook my head free of American laughter, and turned my attention back landwards. There, sure enough, were my comrades-in-arms, waiting like redcoated sheep to be loaded.
‘Ah, nice of you to join us, Harry,’ called Dick from a position at first difficult to locate. ‘Interesting place, is it, Portsmouth?’
I waded over several games of cards, cleared a space for myself with my musket, and sat down next to him, leaving Corporal Tibbs free to report for other duties.
‘Not bad. Busy, though.’ Craning my neck, I looked around the quay to orientate myself. Then I squinted up at the masts of the ship, feeling giddy as I watched the blue-coated sailors scampering around in the terrifying heights of the rigging. ‘So, what time do we board the old, er…’ I could not bring myself to say the name, ‘…ship?’
‘When this lot’s on board, so ‘tis said.’
He nodded over to a mountain of cargo behind us, which was busy being whittled down by sweating, musclebulging stevedores. They either rolled barrels up the gangplank to the waiting crew, or staggered up with armfuls of non-cylindical objects. Now and again, pigs and horses were led up too, and all but one went up willingly enough. The exception was a handsome roan horse, which, perhaps scenting what was in store for him, decided to end it there
and then by leaping into the water with an almighty splash. As he swam in the narrow channel alongside the ship, head held high and snorting horribly, there seemed a chance of rescuing him, but once he rounded the stern and headed out to the open sea all hope was lost. He sank from view just as a boat was being lowered to rescue him. We watched with interest as his weeping chargehand was severely beaten for his negligence by some officer in an apoplectic rage.
I sighed, and pulled a bottle of beer from my knapsack. After a good swig, I set about the cleaning of my musket, having nothing better to do. Detaching the ramrod from the musket barrel, I inspected it with the eye of an expert, then peered down the barrel itself.
‘So, how did your meeting with Burnley Axelrod go?’ asked Dick. ‘Did you get your impressment annulled?’
Discomfited by this question, I replied in a rather surly manner.
‘Obviously not, or else I would not be here, would I?’
Wishing the subject would go away, I got on with my work, cleaning out the barrel of the musket with long strokes of the ramrod.
‘That was Vickie Tremblett he was with at the tavern, was it not?’ observed Ned Lester.
‘Aye, what of it?’
‘You liked her, did you not?’
I sighed deeply with irritation.
‘I repeat, Ned. What of it?’
‘He’ll be giving her one this very minute.’
Refusing to rise to the bait, I adopted a mask of smiling indifference and got on with my work. Inwardly, however, I was damnably perturbed, and this was reflected somewhat in the manner of my barrel-cleaning, which became ever more vigorous.
‘Aye, a right seeing-to he’ll be giving her. And who could blame him? Made for riding hard, that filly. Doubt if she’ll be walking properly again much before Christmas.’
This was torture enough, but Ned had not finished there. On and on his musings went, in ever greater detail, until the conversation widened and moved on to the joys of sex in general. How vigorous it was, how frequent it was, how abundant it was, how common it was, how dirty it was, how satisfying it was, how healthy it was, how toe-curlingly knee-tremblingly mouth-wateringly bloody exciting it was. Gripping my ramrod with a white-knuckled hand, I cleaned my musket out with ever increasing violence, until eventually, saliva dripping onto my breeches, I could take no more. I stood up, surveyed the guard situation, gave my tricorne, jacket and arms into Dick’s safekeeping, and announced my temporary departure.
Infernal Revolutions Page 9
